


Flying Not So Blind

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day of flying about on the Quidditch Pitch, Harry heads to the locker room. Someone else also has that idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Not So Blind

Something isn’t right about this. I can’t put my finger on it but I’m suspicious just the same. The difference between Ron and me is that I keep my reservations to myself while he bellows them out loud so that a person in opposite towers at Hogwarts can hear him. I don’t want to cause a fight; I just want to fly. Then again, it might cause a row if I tried to stop him from yelling at our spectator in the stands as well so I just stay quiet. Let Ron yell at him all he wants. I’m going to ignore it all and just fly. Just be.

As Ron hovers above one of the stands griping at our observer, I shake my head and lean back slightly on my Firebolt and shoot up a few more feet. Leaning a bit to the left and then to the right, I zig zag across the Quidditch pitch, rising higher and higher. Ron’s voice is growing faint now and I close my eyes, completely caught up in the sensation of the wind whipping through my hair and all the space around me. Cornering sharply, my eyes fly open and I grin as I fall into a quick roll and then right myself again. Flying is just about the only time I ever feel free to be me. Just a normal teenaged wizard who enjoys flying probably a bit too high and too fast than he should. Just Harry. 

“Oi! Harry!”

My grip tightening on the shaft of my broom, I turn my head towards Ron’s voice and blink. Merlin, I must’ve been lost in though. He’s nearly right beside me now and looking pleased with himself.

“Yeh Ron?” I call back over the howl of the wind, slowing down so we’ll be able to hear one another. 

Sidling up beside me on his Cleansweep Eleven, I know before he even tells me what he’s about to say. My eyes scan that small section of the stands where Ron had been moments ago immersed in a confrontation. Empty.

“Got rid of that git,” says Ron proudly, an indignant look in his eyes that he always gets when our recent observer is around. 

“I see,” I reply almost absently, still staring at that now-empty bench that had a warm body on perched on it only a few moments before. 

“He won’t be bothering us. Told him to knob off. I don’t know what the sod his problem is, anyway! He wasn’t even arguing with me, not really. Didn’t even call me Weasel, if you can bloody believe that!” Ron shakes his head, ginger hair that’s desperately in need of a cut swinging back and forth until it gently settles again, only to get mussed up once more as we make leisurely laps about the pitch flying against the wind. 

My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Really?” I ask, taken somewhat aback. Although I am glad that Ron didn’t get involved in a duel or scuffle, I am somewhat perplexed. Since when did Malfoy not rise to the occasion? Since when did he not take the opportunity to call Ron by that name that got his temper to flare faster than any other or to toss off an insult or two? 

Something definitely isn’t right about this.

“Really!” replies Ron smugly. 

I nod mutely and then lean down into my broom handle, shooting out far in front of Ron in a burst of speed. I can hear his mock-outraged cry behind me but I don’t look back. His broom, although fast in its own right, is no match for mine. He won’t be catching up anytime soon. And right now I don’t know if I would want him to catch up even if he could.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dusk is setting in now. 

“Harry, I’ll see you later in the common room, all right? I’ve got to meet up with Hermione to study for Transfiguration!”

“Like that?” I ask dubiously as I touch down on the pitch, dismounting my broom and taking in Ron’s red-faced, rumpled appearance.

“What?” Ron asks defensively, one hand patting furiously at his dishevelled hair.

I laugh and shake my head. Right now his hair looks even messier than mine on a bad day and I don’t think there is any hope that he’ll get it to smooth down without a charm or twelve.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to hide the amusement in my voice. “Go study _Transfiguration_.”

“Oh, shut your gob!” Ron huffs, turning bright red at my tone. 

This only serves to make me guffaw and Ron to bluster a bit. He could have stopped having Hermione tutor him half a term ago as his marks have gotten much higher in McGonagall’s class but he didn’t. Even if he said otherwise, I strongly suspect that Ron rather likes having Hermione boss him about and lecture him. I can’t say I really blame him – she’s awfully pretty when she’s determined and confident about something. I just hope they both realise what’s going on soon or else I’m going to have to do something drastic, like perform a Semi-Permanent Sticking Charm on the both of them and then using a Body Binding Charm on them together. 

“I didn’t say a word.” Affecting an innocent expression, I punch him lightly on the shoulder and then push him in the direction of the school. “Go on, prat. You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“Merlin, no!” Ron groans, shuddering probably at the thought of Hermione being put out with him. “Exploding snaps later on?”

“Yeh.”

“Wicked! Laters!”

I watch him walk away until I can’t see him anymore and then sling my broom over a shoulder. I fully plan on taking my time heading back to the school. After spending nearly the entire day out on the pitch, I am both exhausted and more than a little grimy. 

Pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose with my free hand, I start off for the locker rooms. Walking around the side of the building until I find the entrance marked Gryffindor, I open the ancient oak door and step inside. After making sure I put on enough light to see but not enough to blind me, I walk past a few rows of lockers and benches until I reach the very last one. Propping my Firebolt against a vacant locker on the end of the aisle, I then turn down the row. Stopping in front of my locker, I open the door and undo the clasps on my cloak. Feeling the heavy wool slide off of my shoulders and onto the floor, I move forward a step or two so that I don’t accidentally trample on it. Removing my glasses, I twist my torso and bend at the waist so I can reach down and place them on the bench. Straightening, I then place my hands at the hem of my jumper, fingers curling under the end. As I begin to pull the garment up I can hear my bones creak and I groan. Although I feel as free as anything up in the air and can fly happily for hours, it often doesn’t hit me until I’ve been safely on the ground for a good while that I might overdo it sometimes. Today was one of those times. At least, I figure it must be on account of the grinding and scraping of my bones against one another. 

A low chuckle sounds from somewhere behind me and I flinch, startled. 

“What the --” I gasp, turning around with a frown on my face, fully expecting to see Ron standing there sniggering at me. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d scared the bemerlin out of me like that in the locker room before.

It isn’t Ron.

My eyebrows shoot up so high that they nearly must go right off my forehead when I see just who it is.

“ _You_!” I breath, willing myself to recover from that now-embarrassing little jump I’d just taken. 

“You were expecting the Dark Lord, perhaps?” he returns around a smirk.

“Perhaps,” I grunt in return, my eyes transfixed by the way his lips curl at the corners. I’d seen him smirk many a time but never from in these close quarters before.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he drawls as he edges nonchalantly toward me. “Don’t let me stop you.”

“Huh?” I blink.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he repeats, indicating with a nod to the hem of my jumper. 

I stare at him blankly for a minute, my eyes drifting from his and to his mouth and back again until I get his meaning and look down. My fingers are still wrapped around the hem of my jumper.

“Oh.”

He says nothing in return. Instead, he leans back against the locker adjacent from mine, his hands in his pockets and his ankles crossed, looking every inch the aristocrat that he is.

Something isn’t right about this but I find that I don’t give a toss right now. 

This is a challenge or something and, although I don’t exactly understand it, I am not about to back down.

Giving him a smirk of my own, I bunch the fabric of the jumper in my hands and slowly pull it up my chest. The air in the room is cool and I can feel gooseflesh raising on my skin. My eyes lock on his, green on grey, and I do not look away. Up, up the fabric goes and over my head. I lift my arms up and drag the rest of the garment off of my arms, lowering them and then dropping it to the floor. 

I look at Malfoy more closely now, having lost a few precious seconds while taking that jumper off. The smirk is gone. His mouth is set in a firm line and it makes me wonder what he’s playing at here. 

My own smirk fades and I turn away from him to face my locker again.

_Great oik_ , I think, kicking my jumper haphazardly out of my way. I don’t know what he’s doing but I’m not playing his game any longer. I’m going to take a deep breath and turn and face him and tell him just how—

“You’re cold,” his voice whispers in my ear, his breath warm on the back of my neck. I hadn’t even heard him move but, oh Merlin, I can sense how close he is now.

“Y-yeh,” I manage, closing my eyes and wondering why all of a sudden my heart is beating a wild tattoo in my chest.

“Tsk tsk,” he chides, moving to speak in my other ear now. 

I shudder.

Suddenly his hands, broad and soft and warm, are on my shoulders, rubbing up and down my arms once, twice, three times.

“What--”

“You should have performed a Warming Charm in here, Potter. You’ll freeze your bollocks off.” Having said that, I can feel him move away from me and I find suddenly that I don’t really want him, Draco Malfoy, to move away or stop touching me.

Swallowing hard, I nod. “I forgot.”

“Obviously,” came the wry response.

“Right.”

“You’ll be here tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yeh.”

“Then I suppose I ought to stop by to make sure you didn’t forget about the Warming Charm.”

I nod and he nears me again.

“Can’t have The Boy Who Lived turn into an iced lolli,” he says diplomatically as he runs a hand across my stomach. “Until tomorrow then, Potter.”

My mouth completely dry, I just nod again and watch him leave, wondering what other parts of me he’d be willing to warm up tomorrow.

Something isn’t right about this but something isn’t wrong about it either.


End file.
